Gloria, Hosanna In Excelsis
by awn
Summary: Set during HBP. We join three Harry Potter characters on Christmas Day 1996: Dudley at his parents', Draco as he celebrates with his mother and aunt and Severus as he forcibly partakes in the festivities at Hogwarts. Written years ago.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter™, all characters, locations, institutions and other inventions copyrighted by Mrs. J. K. Rowling, mentioned in the _Harry Potter_ novels, or in any other writings or statements—oral or written—by J. K. Rowling, are the sole property of said Mrs. J. K. Rowling, of her various publishers world-wide (such as, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Publishing Psc. and Scholastic Inc.), and of Warner Brothers™. No copyright infringement is intended, nor is any form of profit made from this work. This story was solely fabricated for the sake of my personal enjoyment, and published with the intent of entertaining others free of charge.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG (K+)  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Mildly offensive language  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Set during HBP. We join three Harry Potter characters on Christmas Day 1996.  
><strong>Word count:<strong> Total: 6,766; this piece: 2,101 words.

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>

'_Ding dong merrily on high,  
>In heav'n the bells are ringing:<br>Ding dong! verily the sky  
>Is riv'n with angel singing.<br>Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!'_

'Merry Christmas, Diddykins!'

As Dudley Dursley appeared in the kitchen of his home on Christmas Morning, his mother Petunia threw herself over him, attempting to collect him in her arms; though, instead, seemingly realizing this was no longer possible, she wrapped her thin arms around her son's thick neck; her thrilled voice mingling with the television programme of carols. Dudley patted her back absent-mindedly, glancing over her shoulder at the breakfast table, where his father and aunt were sitting beside a pile of presents, both with cups of steaming coffee before them.

'Merry Christmas, Dud!' his father greeted him, raising his saucer into the air like a salute, grinning broadly, the cup wobbling dangerously thereupon.

'Come here, sweetie,' said Aunt Marge merrily, patting the empty chair beside here. 'C'm'ere, sit beside Marge!'

Dudley went over; he sat down, his mother hurriedly appearing by his other side with a frying pan, lading Dudley's plate with a couple of sausages and a fried egg.

'Give him some more, will you, Petunia? The lad's growing, for Heaven's sake!'

Petunia smiled lightly and obliged, putting down two additional sausages on her son's plate; however, as she turned away towards the oven, she frowned in disagreement—though this no one saw but Dudley, who knew his mother was still concerned about his diet, even though he was no longer obese (albeit chubby), courtesy of his boxing classes.

'While you're at it, Petunia dear, could you fetch some more coffee? My head's exploding!'

'Of course, Marge dear,' replied Petunia, an annoyed expression appearing on her face as Marge and Vernon looked away.

As her sister-in-law turned towards the kitchen sink for the coffee pot, Marge went on, 'By the way, Vernon, I'm glad that school has taken that _boy_ off your hands—jolly nice of them to spare you the trouble of having him here during Christmas. What was the school's name now?'

'St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys.' Dudley knew that his father's reply was automatic, yet forced.

'Oh, that's right. I forgot the name, it's ridiculously long and I'm getting older, you know, but thank God the kid's kept away—I hope the school's as secure as it sounds. I remember the last time I saw the brat … incredulously rude. Typical sociopath; I can't even remember the final night of my visit: I suppose I must've suppressed it all because of his cheekiness. One would think he'd show some gratitude over all you've done for him …'

'I quite agree, Marge,' said Vernon, glancing over at Petunia.

Marge nodded. 'I admire you. Say, will he return this summer, or can they keep him?'

'He'll return. Unfortunately, the school can't keep him for the summer holidays,' replied Vernon bitterly, 'but we'll only have him until the last July. Then he's of age and not our problem anymore.'

'Of age? I thought he was born the same year as Dudley?'

'Well, no,' said Vernon very quickly; Dudley knew he was thinking hard.

Dudley remembered the old man who had visited them that summer and what he had told them: his cousin would be of age on his seventeenth birthday, not his eighteenth; that was, apparently, how things were run in _their_ world. Naturally, his parents could never confess this, and what other culture could Harry be adherent to where people turned of age one year before those living in the normal world? Aunt Marge could perhaps be trusted, but they could never admit their secret to her: the only ones aware of his cousin's peculiar nature was his parents and himself—at least as far as the social ring of the Dursleys was concerned.

'Well … this is a bit embarrassing. He had to remain in the third form,' Petunia lied. 'He caused too much trouble, when he was in the same school as Dudley—played truant every other lesson. When he actually went to class, he paid no attention whatsoever, that delinquent brat, and very often made sure the other students couldn't either: he caused havoc wherever he went in general, and in the classroom in particular. Which is partly why we sent him to St Brutus's in the first place. That's why he's in Dudley's year, but on a different school. He'll turn eighteen this July.'

'Doesn't surprise me,' grunted Marge and had yet another sip of coffee while the Dursleys relaxed: Dudley had been taught long since that Harry's true nature was the family's darkest secret and was not to be revealed for any outsider, not even Marge. 'That he had to redo a year, I mean. I'm glad there are places like that for them. To keep those instable villains out of society. Lock the madmen in, I say, and never let them on the loose! Only God knows what those people can do when they get their brains in action!'

'Er … Marge,' Vernon began very cautiously, as carefully as though he was presented with a bomb who might explode any minute. 'What exactly do you mean by "those people"?'

'Oh, Vernon, you know what I mean. Thieves, burglars, rapists, killers, workers' unions and commies … With such scum lose all around the country; it's no wonder odd things happen every now and then!' She cut her sausage in half, leaning down to the floor, giving one of the ends to her precious dog Ripper. 'I remember when I was here that summer three years ago. That Black man had gone loose. Killed thirteen people, didn't he?'

'Yes … yes, he did …'

'Do you know whether they caught him?'

They glanced at each other; the Dursleys knew perfectly well he had not been convicted—their nephew had informed them of that. However, they could not confess this to Marge. Black was, like their nephew, a wizard, and also their nephew's god-father: they could not risk telling Marge anything.

'Dunno,' Vernon muttered in the end, rescuing the situation. 'It was quite the hush-hush afterwards, wasn't it?'

Marge nodded fervently. 'I don't get what they're hiding. Or why they insist on putting people in jail—it's almost like they _want_ them to escape!Well, ship 'em to Australia I say. Or kill 'em! Lousy government, repealing death penalty … That's the least thing you could do with such scum!'

'I quite agree, Marge,' said Vernon, acting much more relaxed now that the conversation was steered into safer territories. 'In my opinion, we should send them to Australia and hang them there. Those damned Communists, idiots, taking money from us to send to alcoholics and freaks that are too lazy to work for their own breadwinning!'

Both Petunia and Marge nodded fervently.

'Making me pay to them with _my_ well-earned money! And then give it to such people too! If I'd want to, I could give money to charity like those philanthropist weirdoes, wouldn't I?'

'You're quite right, Vernon,' said Marge gravely, nodding over her fried egg. 'Those Labour nitwits should be happy to have a job—decent people like you and I shouldn't have to support them if they're too lazy to do it themselves.' She put the mug down. 'There! Are y'all done? I think it's time for some gift giving!'

She flashed a wide grin at her nephew, and turned around to fetch her hand-bag which she had slung around the back of her chair, Dudley looking with anticipation at her. 'I didn't know what to give you, love, but … here.' She handed over a white, simple envelope to him, labelled only with Dudley's name. Dudley opened it, and extracted a card with small painted Father Christmases, a banderol with the inscription 'Merry Christmas' spread on top of it. He opened it, saw his aunt's signature and a fifty-pound note neatly folded within.

'Thanks very much, Aunt Marge,' Dudley grinned, putting the note and the card back into the envelope.

Marge grinned back. 'Thought I'd give you money … you could buy whatever you'd like. Perhaps something cool for your motor bike?'

'Yeah, that'd be great!' Dudley grinned once again before opening his envelope from his parents—it contained precisely hundred pounds.

After an impressive lunch made by Petunia, consisting of the traditional turkey and claret, Dudley, Vernon and Marge had collapsed in one arm chair each, simply gazing into the fake fire wherein Harry had once disappeared, each sipping liqueur, while Petunia took care of the dishes from the great dining room adjoined with the dinner room.

'Mmm … _Christmas_.' Marge stretched and put her legs on the pedestal in front of her armchair, sinking deeper into the seat. 'It's nice not having to cook, for a change. Petunia, dear?'

'Yes?' Dudley's mother called back from the kitchen.

'Do you need a hand?'

'No, thank you, I'll manage this!'

'All right!' Marge lent back and let out another sigh of content, apparently very pleased that her service was unneeded.

Sitting in the armchairs, his father and aunt were soon snoring after having finished their drinks, and Dudley's thoughts drifted over to Harry.

Since he left them this summer, Dudley had spent an abnormal amount of time thinking of him, and what the old man coming to fetch him had said. He could not remember his name, though he thought the man's name was _Dumbelforth_. However, the man's name was not the important thing—it was what he had said that Dudley pondered. He had said Harry had been abused; though Dudley's parents claimed they had not abused his cousin—this, his parents had assured him of several times. Dudley had been raised to think that Harry was an ungrateful brat that had only taken up space—he had been more or less coaxed to believe so—but since the man had appeared in their home, Dudley had begun to consider the possibility of his parents being wrong. He had not confessed these thoughts to them, naturally. Though the process had begun after he had encountered those Dementors and after Harry had told them about the wizard who killed Harry's parents—Voldemort's—return.

Dudley could still envision the look on his mother's face as she had learnt this clearly, even though Dudley himself had been in a terrible condition due to the Dementors his mother so mysteriously had been able to identify: never before, nor after, had he seen her so scared, in such shock and terror, and he knew the terror was not only due to knowing something about the magical world: it was Voldemort's returned that had terrorized her. It was as though she had been informed that Vernon had died, or something similar, and Dudley had realized it was indeed extremely serious, though he didn't know anything about it, more than she had refused to throw her nephew out when her husband had demanded it, and she had refused to explain her behaviour to her husband—thus, Dudley dared not ask about her behaviour either.

And what had the man said? That _he_, Dudley, had been abused—and far more than Harry had ever been? He had yet to figure out the meaning behind those words, and it bothered him, for the man had seemed wise and his cousin had seemed very respectful towards him—he had treated him with something very near reverence, and when Dudley had seen the man's rage, he had come to understood his cousin's awe.

Half an hour later, when the Dursleys had rested enough for another helping of the hostess's delicious cooking, Petunia came carrying a huge pudding, setting it down upon the coffee table. 'Diddikins? Could you take out plates, cups and saucers from the cabinet?'

Dudley nodded and obliged, and as his mother put the pudding on the table, she started arranging them, as Vernon and Marge arose from their seats, and Vernon went over to the cocktail cabinet, extracting a bottle of brandy.

'Dud! Be a good lad and fetch brandy glasses for us all while you're at it, will you?'

As they sat down by the table, he poured liberal amounts of brandy into all four glasses, setting them beside each coffee cup, as Petunia sliced three thick slices and one considerably thinner of the pudding, apparently intending the latter for herself.

'Well then,' said Vernon loudly, as though he had to be overheard despite the fact no one was talking, 'Merry Christmas to all of you then!'

'Merry Christmas,' they all responded, drinking deeply from their glasses.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter™, all characters, locations, institutions and other inventions copyrighted by Mrs. J. K. Rowling, mentioned in the _Harry Potter_ novels, or in any other writings or statements—oral or written—by J. K. Rowling, are the sole property of said Mrs. J. K. Rowling, of her various publishers world-wide (such as, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Publishing Psc. and Scholastic Inc.), and of Warner Brothers™. No copyright infringement is intended, nor is any form of profit made from this work. This story was solely fabricated for the sake of my personal enjoyment, and published with the intent of entertaining others free of charge.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG (K+)  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Mildly offensive language  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Set during HBP. We join three Harry Potter characters on Christmas Day 1996.  
><strong>Word count:<strong> Total: 6,766; this piece: 3,072 words.

* * *

><p><strong>II<strong>

'_E'en so here below, below,  
>Let steeple bells be swungen,<br>And "Io, io, io!"  
>By priest and people sungen.<br>Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!'_

Draco Malfoy slowly opened his eyes as he awoke quite early on Christmas morning, blinking a few times in order to adjust his eyes to the sharp midwinter morning sunlight, awoken by his mother singing the carol she always sung making Christmas breakfast, noting how subdued she sounded. He rubbed his eyes, blinking once more, before sitting up straight in his bed, his covers falling from his chest, the cold air of the Malfoy Manor attacking his pale skin like needles. He rubbed his eyes once again before swinging his legs towards the edge of the bed, staring down on his knees.

He was secure at home, far away from the Potions Master's ridiculous attempts at aiding him, he mused as he glanced down on his left lower arm, surveying the Dark Mark engraved in his pearl-coloured skin. He traced the red lines of his Mark, which, should the Dark Lord summon his servants, would immediately blossom, pain him with a burning sensation, shining with the colour of his Lord, ordering the servants to join him instantly, perhaps to inquire Draco about the progress of his task—an event Draco feared, for he had yet to succeed, and his Lord did not accept failure.

An assignment from the Dark Lord had been bestowed upon Draco, which was Draco's and no one else's. Despite what certain people seemed to think, Draco was perfectly capable of performing this task all on his own, and was in absolutely no need of assistance. He knew not why the Potions Professor kept follow him around in the castle, or what made him think he could patronize him and act like his advocate: all Draco knew was that stealing the task that would glorify his father, who was presently captured in Azkaban, would offer further glory on the man supposedly spying on Dumbledore, and the glory of the deed was something Draco himself craved and needed, and was his alone, least of all the Potions Master's.

Therefore, the Dark Lord had made Draco not only a Death Eater, but also a member of his inner circle; the Dark Lord had chosen Draco to replace his father.

Since Lucius's failure at the Ministry of Magic, Draco himself had been expected to join the Dark Lord's meetings with his fellow Death Eaters. Draco's father had, per usual, not informed his wife nor son what he was going to do at the Ministry—only that he had been elected amongst a small group of Death Eaters to perform a task for –the Dark Lord. The task had been of absolutely highest importance of the Dark Lord, and therefore he had elected his closest Death Eaters only, for he could not appear in the Ministry of Magic in person, thus revealing himself for the Ministry, who denied Dumbledore's and _Potter's_ claims that he had, indeed, returned. The position formerly held by the Ministry of Magic had, indeed, been in the Dark Lord's favour. The only thing they knew—for the rest of the Death Eaters had not been informed of this mission, for if they had, Draco knew, his mother had known of it—was that Lucius needed to perform this mission on the behalf of the Dark Lord, and that he could not tell anyone about its content. The precise nature of the task had only been revealed to the Death Eaters coming to the Ministry, and not even they seemed to know the true nature of the operation—although, Aunt Bella pretended to be well informed about the secrets of the Dark Lord, but would only answer inquiries about the procedure with a standard phrase: 'The ways and secrets of the Dark Lord are to be shared only by him personally and are only distributed amongst the small group consisting of those he knows can always and without exception be trusted.'

However, Draco's father, the leader of the group, had failed miserably and been captured in Azkaban. For this, the Dark Lord had come to the decision Draco would fill his father's place; in order to make up for his father's fault, Draco had been assigned a mission of high importance. He was to dispose of the Death Eaters' main opponent, the Headmaster of Hogwarts: Albus Dumbledore.

It was, in a sense, as simple as that.

The Dark Lord had decided Draco would put the end of the man's life, the man so often named the main opponent of the Dark Lord. His Master had made the task sound fairly easy, and perhaps slaughtering a man was easy for _him_, though Draco felt remorse over this.

However, he wanted not to accept aid from his Potions Master, by many the Dark Lord excluded believed to be a traitor: this was a deed he had to perform solely on his own. Draco knew perfectly well why he had been assigned to do this, and why the Dark Lord had wanted him to become a Death Eater in the first place: to make up for the mistake made by his father in the Department of Mystery that summer. Draco knew the happenings at the Ministry had had to do with Harry Potter: he and his friends—the two youngest Weasley siblings, Mudblood Granger, Longbottom the nitwit and Looney Lovegood—had been there. This was, of course, a secret kept strictly by Dumbledore; naturally, the events had slipped out into the student body regardless and had spread across the school with more speed than tarantula venin. Whatever his father, his aunt Bellatrix—who was with the party, and, a favourite servant of the Dark Lord as she was, rescued by the Dark Lord himself—and the other Death Eaters had failed to do, Draco knew not; however, his aunt had insinuated the mishap had been of great importance to the Dark Lord, and he was not very likely to forbid his father as quickly as he had pardoned his aunt.

Draco had, however, understood from Bellatrix's hints that the Dark Lord had entered the Ministry in person, not in accordance with the plan, and that a majority of the staff of the Ministry, including the Minister himself, had witnessed the Dark Lord's presence with their own eyes. Therefore, the Ministry had, equally finally as regrettably, realized that Potter and Dumbledore the blubber had been telling the truth all along—which Draco, of course, was well aware of; however, the longer the return of the Dark Lord was kept in silence, the better. This was a word coming from the mouth of the Dark Lord himself, at least according to his father. One would think that the Dark Lord would be furious now that the community at large were aware of his return in the reflections of the advantage of the Ministry's concealing of his return; unwillingly, Draco had pondered that, should a Death Eater other than Aunt Bellatrix have been the cause of the public revelation, the Dark Lords fury would be beyond the realms of the description by words.

Draco arose, then crossed his wide bed room heading to the adjoined bathroom on the manor, heading for a shower, before going down to the near-ritual Christmas celebrations which this year lacked his father, though his aunt made an addition.

Traditionally, the Malfoys had all meals of Christmas Day in their dining room, and this year was no exception. Naturally this was something Draco was perfectly aware of, having spent all of his Christmases but one in the Manor, though it still felt special and solemn to cross the corridors towards the dining room in the morning, seeing that it was normally used for dinner solely, as the Manor contained both a breakfast and a luncheon room.

'Merry Christmas, my love,' said Narcissa, Draco's mother, very silently as he opened the door. She was sitting in the chair nearest the door, nearest Draco.

As Draco made his way, he realized his aunt was pouring a cup of tea at him, smiling broadly and menacingly at her nephew, whatever ability of affection left in her gleaming at him, Draco knew, through her attempt at a friendly gesture.

'Thank you, Aunt Bella.'

'You are very welcome, love. Come sit next to me, and tell me how you are doing in school. My dear, I haven't seen you since this summer, I'm so thrilled!'

Despite his wish to sit next to his mother, whose sole company Draco would very much have preferred, Draco forced himself to walk up towards his aunt, and sloped down on the chair beside her. As Bellatrix looked away to pass him the basket of bread, his mother turned to him, with a slight smile, and sent him a glance that expressed mutual understanding of the peculiar manners of Bellatrix.

'Well then,' said Bellatrix finally after a brief lapse of silence, 'go on!' She was speaking to her sister, Draco knew, because the instant Bellatrix stopped speaking, his mother bent beneath the table. Draco, meanwhile, sipped his tea.

'Here you are, my son,' said his mother, handing him a small, parcel lad box.

Draco pulled the silver lace away from the box, and then opened it, to reveal a great, old-fashioned clock in pure silver, with roman numerals engraved around the sides of the perfect circle.

'Thanks, Mother, Aunt,' said Draco to the women seated at either sides at him, smiling at his Aunt and then beaming at his mother, who replied with a faint smile, the reason behind which Draco was perfectly aware.

'_That_,' said Bellatrix with heavy emphasis, 'was your great-grand-father's; it is a Black heirloom. The heroic Kreacher managed to rescue it from our house on Grimmauld Place when those blood traitors raged against our possessions, clearing out our noble cupboards and drawers …' Her voice trailed off as she mused over the demolition. 'Such a waste our dear cousin had the time to write his Will, giving it all away to that Mudblood-loving half-blood brat. Kreacher would have loved to continue serving us. It's nothing less than I'd expect of my cousin—he never had understanding for family heirloom or tradition, let alone the brains to value it, despicable _Gryffindor_ as he was—though I deeply regret it all had to disappear into the greedy hands of the Order.'

'We know you love silver,' said his mother so silently only Draco was supposed to hear, though her sister cut her across,

'But of _course _he does, Cissy! He's a Slytherin, and, despite his surname, also a _Black_. Only the purest and noblest of colours is best for him! Besides, we wanted to make sure that as much Black property as possible will remain in the Black family … despite the fact we no longer carry the surname, the noble and pure blood still runs through our veins, rather than in the hands of Mudbloods and half-breed and the blood-traitor supporters thereof!'

OOO

The little company spent the remainder of the morning before the great mantel piece of the drawing room with a glass of wine each, enjoying the heat of the open fire, Narcissa and Draco with a book each, though Bellatrix seemed restless and was admiring her Dark Mark per usual. Despite Bellatrix's many complaints about Narcissa doing the dishes of breakfast—'Cissy, that's a chore for house elves! And Muggles! And the poor! How can you disgrace yourself and your noble name like this?'—she calmed down quite soon, relaxing in front of the fire. She was examining her Dark Mark with pure passion gleaming in her eyes, as though she expected her beloved Lord to summon her merely because she traced the lines—quite like Draco had done that morning; however, the fashion in which Bellatrix examined hers could not respond to the way Draco surveyed his: Draco had studied it with fear and repulsion—his aunt examined it with pure affection and admiration.

In the meantime—that was, when Bellatrix did not intervene their discussion to complain about not having a servant, or comment on the discussion—Draco's mother asked him about his school progress, questions which her son answered fairly truthfully, though he did glorify himself somewhat. He thought his mother ought not to know the details of his poor school work, which he privately blamed upon the burden of his mission.

'You haven't killed him yet?' At this blunt and unexpected inquiry, both Draco and his mother looked down on the floor, awaiting a rage from Bellatrix; however, they needed not to worry.

'Well, I'm sure you will manage, Draco!' said Bellatrix after a sip of wine. 'As a matter of fact, I've heard the dotard is getting ill. Apparently, he's got his hand injured, and because of the damage he's getting weaker. Or well, Snape reported this to the Dark Lord. That's why I didn't believe it when I first heard it. I … I am of the notion that, perhaps, the Dark Lord is mistaken on this particular note. Not that he normally does, no … though Snape's an excellent Occlumens—I can't deny the fact. Perhaps he is hiding his true affiliation from the Dark Lord … my poor Lord … hoodwinked by the one he trusts the most … me excepted, of course. We must hope that, for our noble cause for the pure elite of magical blood to run this world, the Dark Lord realizes his mistake soon …'

During this monologue, Draco and his mother remained perfectly still, not talking.

'Well, the bottom line is that you'll have to manage anyway,' said Bellatrix after yet another sip of her now nearly empty glass. 'I've heard from … ah … more _reliable_ sources that the old man is, after all, growing sick. Tell me, Draco dear, has Dumbledore not been more absent that usual this past term?'

Draco thought hard. 'Maybe. I'm not sure –'

'Aren't you keeping track of your victim?'

'I—of course I am, Aunt.' Fortunately for Draco, Bellatrix was nowhere as talented in Legilimency as Snape or the Dark Lord. 'I have seen his blackened hand several times. But as you say, he has been absent, and it's not particularly easy to keep track of him when he's not there, is it?'

'Has it ever occurred to you that you could sneak after him when he … disappears? Surely, he'd have to leave the grounds in order to Disapparate, wouldn't it be easy to—I don't know—grab the hem of his travelling cloak?'

'I am certain Draco is tending to his mission quite well,' Draco's mother cut across with unusual fierce: she rarely opposed her sister, though when her sister criticized her son, she would doubtlessly defend him.

'And so am I, Cissy! There, Draco … you have yet another term to find the perfect opportunity—or even next year! I am sure you'll manage quite well … If you would like, I could teach you how to play with him before you make the final blow after lunch.'

Draco noticed her mother twitch, and he knew why: while she approved of what Bellatrix categorized as 'playing', she did not approve of the mere thought her precious son would do it. Draco himself felt repulse with the games of the Death Eaters, but was determined to learn how to handle his problem.

Bellatrix grinned. 'Nonetheless, I'm proud of you … very proud. You should be honoured for being assigned this mission. This is not a task the Dark Lord would bestow upon some random person; it is a token for his trust upon you. That must be the Black blood in your veins … your father couldn't possibly take credit for it. The Dark Lord shows that he gas much confidence in you, but also that he considers you to be very trustworthy, as Dumbledore is, after all, his greatest enemy. Not that he fears him; the Dark Lord does not fear anyone, least of all an old blood-traitor and Mudblood-lover like Dumbledore! But he remains the main opponent of Our Lord and the greatest obstacle to a clean society … You should consider this a glory above all else, Draco. I am proud of you and I shall be casting my glory to your feet upon your success, Draco—_I_, who suffered decades in Azkaban for our Master and tried desperately to restore his reign, punishing some foul blood-traitor Aurors in the process, _I_, who alone anticipated his return while others abandoned him.' She took a long glance on her sister. 'Of course, I realize that if it had not been for that donkey of a husband of yours, you would have beseeched the Dark Lord, Narcissa … but you did your plight and reproduced to do your part in filling this world with our noble blood, however imbecile your partner indeed was—pitiful as it is that Draco doesn't bear the noble name of Black. That is an important part of the abiding society, Narcissa … very well done indeed. Now, the name of Black …' she took a swig of her glass. 'I hear the Mudblood-loving fools thought my late _cousin_ was the servant of the Dark Lord! What an atrocious accusation! Sirius being a Death Eater? He is—save from the Weasels—most likely the greatest blood-traitor of pure-blood history. It is a disgrace to The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black! I understand that the Ministry thought he—_he_—was the one assisting us breaking free from Azkaban! Can you believe it? Narcissa, our so-called "cousin"—by terminology only of course—being anything other than a family-disowning blood traitor?'

'You're quite right, Bella.'

OOO

As he had done since his father's imprisonment, Draco lay awake long into the night as Christmas Day slowly gave in for Boxing Day. He thought about his mission, which had occupied his head for those long months, ever since the Dark Lord had assigned it to him. He knew, however, that he ought to decline Snape's offers of help, regardless he needed them or not; Draco knew the Dark Lord would not grant his father liberty unless Draco performed this mission accurately: his father's liberty was the main reason—the lone reason—as to why Draco did this.

He knew perfectly well his father would never forgive him otherwise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter™, all characters, locations, institutions and other inventions copyrighted by Mrs. J. K. Rowling, mentioned in the _Harry Potter_ novels, or in any other writings or statements—oral or written—by J. K. Rowling, are the sole property of said Mrs. J. K. Rowling, of her various publishers world-wide (such as, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Publishing Psc. and Scholastic Inc.), and of Warner Brothers™. No copyright infringement is intended, nor is any form of profit made from this work. This story was solely fabricated for the sake of my personal enjoyment, and published with the intent of entertaining others free of charge.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG (K+)  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Mildly offensive language  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Set during HBP. We join three Harry Potter characters on Christmas Day 1996.  
><strong>Word count:<strong> Total: 6,766; this piece: 1,589 words.

* * *

><p><strong>III<strong>

'_Pray you, dutifully prime  
>Your matin chime, ye ringers;<br>May you beautifully rime  
>Your evetime song, ye singers.<br>Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!'_

'Merry Christmas, Severus!' Albus exclaimed over the enchanted music.

'Merry Christmas, Headmaster!' replied Severus, forcing a smile. 'Although I must point out we exchanged this salute this morning.'

'Of course we did, my dear boy,' said Dumbledore with surprising joy, laughing slightly but merrily. 'Though I must say that I am of the notion that wishing each other "Merry Christmas" cannot be overdone.'

Severus smiled, unable to respond to this peculiar reply; instead, he turned to glance over the student body, and saw no of it was up to anything mischievous. He was relieved neither Potter nor Draco had stayed for the holiday—thus, Severus could not be held responsible for anything happening them, and could for once rest from reviewing their welfare.

'May I offer you some turkey, Severus?' asked McGonagall from Dumbledore's other side. 'Some red wine with that, perhaps?'

Severus nodded in confirmation though he elaborated not as he passed his plate towards the woman who had taught him Transfiguration so long ago, and now treated him respectfully, as an equal. 'Please.'

McGonagall gave one of her unusual smiles and accepted the plate from him, loading it with potatoes and turkey.

The luncheon passed on well, though it reminded Severus of his Christmases as a student of the school; the Christmases of the era of the last ascending to the height of the power of the Dark Lord. He remembered the Christmas of his last year of Hogwarts particularly clearly—and he remembered her, even though she spent her Christmas at home, which Severus never did. Beyond everyone's happy faces, the same unspoken fear dwelled now as it has done then. And, he reminded himself, those years had been the period when everything had yet to become ruined, and of the ruination of everything. Within these very walls, their friendship had burst, and the ideas that became to take Lily's life were implanted upon the mind of the younger version of him. Full of despair and contempt, he had adapted the ideas as his own, unable to determine the outcome of them. The worst part of all was, that however hard he tried, he could not erase Dumbledore's expression of pure wrath and contempt upon realizing why an older Severus begged him to spare Lily's life, and, by consequence, Potter's and his off-spring. Severus vigorously shook his head: he wished not to think about _that_.

Severus was sitting alone in his quite draughty—yet, in Severus's opinion, comfortable—office, grading the essays of the imbecile numbskulls constituting the student body of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. Grading essays was Severus's usual way of occupying himself during the ridiculous and redundant lapse in education called _Christmas holidays_. Severus could not bring himself to understand the necessity of becoming all joyful and triumphant of the mere, simple reason it was a certain date in the dead of winter; how the grave complications of politics and the war against the Dark Lord could vanish instantly in the mind of nearly everyone else; how they could temporarily ignore such business, rejoicing as though nothing had happened.

He could understand the reason of celebration in the Muggle Christian mass delusion that Christ, some ridiculous Saviour of mankind, had been born in accordance with some ancient Muggle hobby prophets. He knew of the motives of the feast: Lily had been a believer, and therefore contemplation upon Christianity pained him too much to dwell upon.

Severus, at least, knew these times were dark. He was perfectly aware of the fact these currents events were far too grave to ignore, if so only for the period of a day. He knew, and no one could deny this truth, the ways of the Dark Lord better than anyone else in the Order of the Phoenix, which Dumbledore, the leader of said Order, was perfectly aware of—though he had waved Severus's concerns away regardless, claiming there was not much they could do apart from enjoying the season. 'If Voldemort takes the main season of charitable love from us, has he then not conquered already?' This had been Dumbledore's reply as Severus approached him with the suggestion.

After this light-headed assertion, Dumbledore had simply smiled at Severus and ambiguously asked—or rather, ordered—Severus to join the party in the Great Hall for all Christmas meals. After a quarter of an hour consisting of partly pleas and partly orders from Dumbledore's part, Severus had reluctantly given in.

He had endured breakfast and lunch with the teachers and students, who were all joyful and triumphant, with grave difficulty.

Severus reluctantly admired Dumbledore for being so high-spirited, even though he knew well enough after these fifteen years that Dumbledore had his reasons for all his peculiar ways, and Severus knew better than to question the Headmaster's decisions. Nonetheless, Severus had felt concerned for the Headmaster's health, as well as for the progress of the Dark Lord lately. And as though his worries were not many enough, another burden had been added to his back: he had had to perform an Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa Malfoy to assist her son in the mission the Dark Lord had assigned Draco: to extinguish the life of Albus Dumbledore.

This was yet another fact the Headmaster handled remarkably easy: he dealt with it as matter-of-factly one would think he was giving Severus instructions how to empty the dustbin! It was almost as though he welcomed his death. Severus did not fear death. He knew not what was coming—no religious comfort eased his fear—but he knew from reason that death was for every man inevitable, as his childhood fairy tale—_The Tale of the Three Brothers_—had pointed out; there was simply no point in fearing death, for it was coming for everyone. As far as Severus was concerned, there was nothing beyond death, either.

Severus put Longbottom's essay back on his desk. He had to agree—most secretly and even more reluctantly, naturally—that the boy had more of a flair for Defence Against the Dark Arts than he had for Potions, although Lupin's and Moody's praise for the boy were, as Severus had suspected all along, over-rated, even though, Severus fretfully accepted, well-based. Not only was he a nit-wit; had the Dark Lord chosen him rather than Potter's offspring, Lily would still be alive.

Severus had let his thoughts go astray; consequently, there was nothing to gain from a continued review of the essay, regardless of its unexpected standard. Instead, Severus glanced at the clock in the corner of the room and realized it was lunch time, and he had better to hurry: Albus had made him vow to show up in the Great Hall.

Even though Severus would have preferred to enjoy his afternoon tea in the solitude of his office, Dumbledore had demanded his presence once again. Obliged to obey the Headmaster's wish, Severus had abandoned the office when the clock drew near tea time, hoping that something positive would come from this: he hoped that he could—at least temporarily—make the feelings of guilt and loss disappear.

Nearly sooner than he sat down by the Staff table, he found his face presented to the end of a cracker. Severus frowned at it.

'Well, pull then, Severus, my dear boy!' said Dumbledore in exaggerated bliss.

Severus wrinkled his nose; however, he grasped the end of the cylinder-shaped object, and pulled half-heartedly. A loud _bang_ escaped from the cracker and several mice plus two paper hats came out of it. Dumbledore immediately donned his; despite the encouragements of the Headmaster, Severus ignored the other one: he still had some self-respect and dignity: he would never allow himself to do something as ridiculous.

The tea itself was quite good in Severus's opinion, and the wide variety of cakes and cookies did not displease him. Even the company made him unexpectedly cheerful; deep down, he was grateful that Dumbledore had persuaded him to come up to the Great Hall, though this was something he intended to never admit.

Perhaps something good came from going down to the Great Hall, after all. He had actually got involved in a quite deep discussion about an article of the holiday special edition of _The Practical Potioneer _with Slughorn—although, after a brandy or two on Slughorn's side, the discussion soon became sickeningly sentimental.

'I always knew you'd turn out to something good with Potions, m'boy … knew you had it in you … You and Lily Evans … Potter, I mean … and her son, quite talented …'

'Talented? _Potter?_ Horace, I think that's enough brandy for you. I say to you, the only student less talented in Potions within this castle is Neville Longbottom, which you should be grateful never to have taught!'

Though after this remark, Severus could no longer block out the thoughts of his one true love anymore, and he finished his tea quickly—he sought his precious solitude again. Lily was present in his mind and he could no longer erase the picture of her as she renounced her friendship with him, and he knew he could not let the thought go into his Pensieve—that method had failed him before.

Instead, her face haunted him well into the night, and he had to remind himself why he was going out his length to protect James Potter's son.

It was all for her.

* * *

><p><strong>Afterword<strong>

The first, hand-written, drafts for this story have existed for a very long time: I think I drafted them sometime in 2010, and intended to publish the story the Christmas of said year. However, I never found time to type it and soon abandoned the idea to finish it in time for the holidays; I see from the document details I originally created the document on 21st December 2010. I started editing it several Christmases, but I haven't been able to post it until now.

As for the title, I found it hard to come up with one. Then I realized I wanted something to tie all the pieces together, and started a search for a carol of three stanzas—one for each of the parts of this story. I found _Ding, Dong, Merrily on High_ an excellent choice and choose to borrow its chorus for my title: _Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis_. This is Latin and comes from the angels' song of praise at the birth of Christ: _Gloria in excelsis Deo_, Glory to God in the highest. _Hosanna_ means help us, a shout to Christ for mercy and comfort.

The idea and purpose of this story is to make you think. None of the titular characters in my story had a particularly Merry Christmas; Dudley was, at least materialistically, spoiled (as usual) but was mature enough to reflect it and see his situation, and his cousin in a slightly new light (I think Professor Dumbledore's visit started something within him, and that his declaration of love towards Harry in _Deathly Hallows_—which inspired me—is proof thereof; Draco was in anguish torn between his psychopathic aunt and his loving mother (for so I interpret the sisters); Severus was in self-contempt and feeling the loss of Lily, which I'm sure he blamed himself for until his death.

Dudley's part is a bit unhinged compared to the other two: I wanted to write a Christmas from his perspective. I originally planned to include descriptions of Dumbledore's and Neville's Christmases as well, but decided against it (maybe another year?).

I'd like you to consider that, if your Christmas was lovely and perfect, think of those who aren't as fortunate. Not only those who hunger, but those for whom Christmas is more of a chore than a source of enjoyment, those who are alone and for the many people who, unfortunately, cannot enjoy Christmas because they feel too stressed out and inadequate, are lonely, depressed or for any other reason. I hope this story brings some food for thought in that direction. If you have felt thusly this Christmas, you have my warmest sympathies.

Lastly (if anyone is still reading): I haven't been posting stories as frequently as I wish I have. The sad truth is that it's over two years since I actually posted anything at all.

With this, I wish you a very Merry Christmas.


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